


Letters to Dennis

by HowWonderfullifeIs



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Coping, M/M, Mac still has a hard time with feelings, Therapy, grief (in a general sense), journal format
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-07 05:33:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14664345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowWonderfullifeIs/pseuds/HowWonderfullifeIs
Summary: Mac takes some advice and tries out a new coping mechanism.





	1. Day 1

Dear Den,  
You know what? No. 

Hey asshole,

I get the feeling that acting calm isn’t normal for me, at least if Charlie and Dee are telling the truth. Everybody else, all the random schmucks out there who I couldn’t give two shits about, they all tell me that I’m coping really well. That this is the healthy way to deal with this. Even Frank and Dee seemed pretty jazzed about it for a couple weeks. I actually tended bar without skimming from the register or having any drinks. I deep-cleaned the bathrooms, which Charlie fucking loved at first, but he did say that it seemed weird. A week later he and Dee were starting to ask if I was really okay, and before they asked, I kind of thought I was. I think that a lot of the shock got taken care of when we blew up the Rover. After that, and after you stopped texting, I just told myself I wasn’t going to think about it anymore, and that meant I had to think about other stuff, stuff like how fucking filthy the bar is and if the customers actually like their drinks and how long I’ve left my face this scruffy. It’s kind of funny how hard it was to start making a new routine. There’s a lot of stuff I never did before, things I didn’t think about doing, because I was busy checking in with you or pulling off one of your cons. 

Anyhow, being productive weirded Charlie and Dee out so much that Dee actually blackmailed her old therapist into seeing me again. I don’t know what Dee told her, but the lady was actually kind of nice. I didn’t want to talk about you, though, at least not to her, not at first, so we’d just talk about how things were going at the bar and whether or not I was trying to date. Problem was, you just kept coming up. It is really fucking hard to be calm when you keep coming up. I told the therapist that, and she said it sounded like there was probably a lot that I wanted to say to you. She gave me this journal the next session. I didn’t really get it at first, but I’ve had a few beers now and I think maybe there’s something to it. Who would I talk to about this besides you? You’re the only one who would get it, and that’s the biggest problem, you’re the only one I want to talk to about anything and you ran away and left me here in my head. I kind of hate what’s in my head. Things at least kind of made sense when half of the stuff in my head was stuff that you put there. I didn’t have to think so hard.

There was a nun at school when I was maybe seven, said the best part of faith, of choosing to believe, was that someone else was calling the shots. You never had to think. Everything God would want you to do was already written down, you just had to listen and follow it. Kind of goes against that whole “free will” thing, but it made a lot of sense to me. I always felt like my brain was going too fast, so having all those expectations to slow me down helped. That’s all I’m trying to do, slow my brain down. Just be normal. I can’t put myself back in the closet again, and I don’t want to, but I still feel like my brain is going to go too fast if I don’t keep finding things to do. It’s fucking sad, but I liked it when my brain went at a speed that you decided. I liked your rules.

This was weird. I’m really tired now, it’s two in the morning. I started drinking at ten. I’ll see if this helps tomorrow.

Goodnight,  
Mac.


	2. Day Eight

Den,

Funny story, I reread what I wrote last week the morning after I wrote it, and then I put my hand through your bedroom wall. Safe to say I’m not fucking calm anymore. Everything is worse now. Dee keeps saying that it has to get worse before I can get better, but fuck it, I think I liked not feeling jack shit better than this. This is why I said I didn’t want to talk about it. I still don’t want to, but I can’t fucking stop, so I guess I’m doing this now. I talked with the therapist again, and she got me to agree to keep writing until I feel like I’ve got my shit back together. It’s going to suck. I’m already exhausted.

I don’t think I’ve been sober any night for the past week. Charlie’s been coming over with spray paint. He thinks he’s helping, which would be cute if it wasn’t so damn sad. I don’t think I can keep huffing, though. It’s just going to make it harder to get over this shit, and I don’t want to get stuck again. I just keep feeling like I did when we lived in the burbs, I can hear every goddamn noise when I’m sober and I’m just angry and waiting and I don’t have the patience to wait for someone who doesn’t want to come back for me, but I don’t have anywhere to go or any way to let it out besides this stupid fucking journal. At least when Charlie brings his shit around I have somewhere to put that energy without thinking about you. That, and the high kind of feels like nothing, which is about where I was at before.

I can’t believe I broke my hand over you. You’d probably like if you actually heard about it, at least a little bit, you sick bastard. You like having people going out of their minds because of something you said, or because you looked at them wrong, shit like that. You like it so much, I’m willing to bet money it gets you fucking hard. You’d be rock fucking solid if you ever got your hands on this thing. If you ever haul your sorry ass back to Philly, I’m burning this thing. I’m not giving you ammo. You don’t get to get your jollies holding my feelings over my head anymore.

God, I don’t think I’ll ever have the balls to say that to you in person. I really am a pussy. Charlie’s knocking now, we’ll see if I turn down the spray paint.

Fuck you,

Mac.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is bliss!


	3. Day Fifteen

Den,

Holy shit, buddy, I need you to reply to Dee at some point. She’s gotten weirder than ever since you haven’t responded to her texts. She keeps talking about how you’re keeping her nephew from her, which is, you know, kind of not what you would expect, considering the last time she saw him, she threatened to smash him. I think she feels like she gets to be in charge now that you’re not here, she keeps trying to give me advice and acting like she cares about me, and kind of about Charlie. She’s been buying him cigarettes. I don’t fucking get it. She used to be so damn angry all the time, and now she’s just kind of bossy. And don’t think for a hot second that I don’t blame you for how fucking weird we’ve all gotten. I wonder if you made things weird for Mandy. Wonder if you two are getting along. I can’t wonder too hard about Mandy, though, at least if I want my hand to heal right, so I guess I’ll bitch about Dee a little more.

The weirdest thing is that she keeps making excuses to take breaks at work, and Charlie always says he has to take a break pretty quickly after. They come back at the same time. When I try to talk to Charlie about how fucking off she’s been, he gets really defensive and leaves. I’m wondering if they’ve got some scheme going and are leaving me out. It’s really not the fucking time for them to be doing that. I’ve been having a hard enough time doing things, I don’t need to deal with whatever the fuck these two are doing without me. Frank thinks they’re banging. I fucking hope not.

That’s really about it for this week. I know you’re not reading, but seriously, talk to that bird bitch and get her off my ass.

Mac.


End file.
